He stood up and stormed into the kitchen, the lawyers trotting nervously after him. Then Caleb stood up. He looked confused. “I need to think,” he said. I watched him slowly walk to the front door, open it, and step out onto the porch. For a moment he just stood there, staring out at our property. Then he shut the door behind him, and it was just me and my mother-in-law, who was looking at me with an expression like a cocked shotgun. “And may God have mercy on your soul,” she said softly, almost like she was finishing a prayer on my behalf. Then she leaned in, so close that I could see the flakes of dead skin peeling off her Barbie-pink lips, and whispered, “Bad girl.”
If only my husband had raped our producer. That was basically what Doug said that night—what heroared—for hours and hours, while a rotating cast of side characters (me, then Amelia, then finally just the lawyers) stared numbly at nothing. If only his stupid little son had raped our stupid little producer. If that had happened, it would’ve been over with and forgotten in two weeks. But a predatory woman? Unthinkable. A good Christian mother and wife who (allegedly!) found other women attractive? Who took what she wanted without asking?
Kill the witch. Burn her.
Upstairs, I sat on my bedroom floor and watched my phone light up on my bedside table, again and again, in little Morse code bursts.
Go-to-hell
Stu-pid bitch
I-hope-so-cial-ser-vi-ces-takes-ur-fuck-ing-kids
It wouldn’t stop buzzing. Finally I crawled over to the table, reached for my phone, then hesitated, my hand hovering over the phone as it twitched. It looked like it was in agony.
I could turn it off. Throw it into a fire. Delete my account. But it wouldn’t go away. All that furious energy—it had to go somewhere, and I could feel it, even now, vibrating up into the air in waves, rising like a mist, absorbing into my skin. Filling my bloodstream with toxins. I could feel it, physicallyfeelthe hatred multiplying inside me like cancer. Online Natalie was optimized for resentment, adoration, jealousy, obsession—but hatred? Pity? Disgust? It was unbearable for her. For me. For us.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I picked up the phone and began reading the notifications. As I scrolled through the waves of fury, I found myself unable to discern between the progressive women who hated me and the good Christian women who hated me. For once, they were aligned in their fury. And then there were the texts.
From my mother:
Natalie call me right now please
From my sister, a torrent of misspelled rage:
I just findit reelly interesting that u were soooo jugmental of me for getting a divorce n being such a “sinner” and meanwhile—
From an unknown number:
I’m going to slit your throat in the middle of the night you stupid fucking lesbo bitch
And then more unknown numbers, dozens of them, piling up in my phone like envelopes slipping through a mail slot.
I will pray to God for your horrible sins
U will burn in hell for this
Disgusting faggot bitch
I stared wildly around. How had these people gotten my phone number? What other private information had they uncovered? Were they going to come to the farm?
Go, Natalie.Run.
But run where? I had fanatical followers who lived in Brazil, New Zealand, Mongolia. The whole world was a spotlight. Evenmy sweet little farmwas rigged against me, bugged with phones, riddled with ungrateful children and disloyal workers. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere safe to hide. A terrible drowning sensation fell over me. All the safety I would ever feel in my life was now firmly rooted in the past.
55
In the olden days,girls, do you know how people got from one place to another? They walked. Yep, that’s right. They walked for miles and miles and miles. If they had a little money, they might have a horse, maybe even a covered wagon to pull along with it. And if they were lucky, they might have a truck!
Wait—that can’t be right.
No. That certainly can’t be right!
I turn the doorknob, and the cabin’s front door swings silently open. I cross quietly over the threshold and into a small wooden kitchen. Suddenly I am staring at a framed picture of my own family, hanging on the opposite wall. It’s from a long time ago: me, Caleb, Clementine, Samuel, and baby Stetson. I don’t remember the day it was taken, but I do remember the caption that accompanied it when I shared the picture online:God is pleased when families work together.
My heart is a wet dead thing in my chest. My gaze swings slowly across the room. I see a dirt-packed floor and a table. On the table: a hot plate. Next to the hot plate: three plastic packs of ramen. Beneath the table: a mini-fridge with a cord that is connected to an electrical outlet.
Then: a radio in the other room, flickering on.
